"Your hearts are my home! Swami will safeguard the purity of your heart which is His home. Swami will bless you with His presence, around, beside, behind and before you. Remember three things always: Always serve, wherever you are. Seek chances to help others. Never lose an opportunity to use your skills and enthusiasm for the alleviation of sorrow, pain and distress. Again, do not omit or neglect or postpone your own particular spiritual practice. Above all, have the faith that Swami is with you, at all times and places."
- Sathya Sai Baba
It was in September, 1984,
that I first heard of Sathya
Sai Baba. In one sentence I
can say: My whole life has
changed. I am almost totally
devoted to Baba or the God
within. How this happened, I
don't quite understand, by
maybe if I recall some of
the events of my life and my
experiences with Baba, the
understanding will come.
I have spent most of my life
developing self-confidence
and ego, for as a child, I
had very little sense of my
own worth. I was brought up
in New York City in an upper
middle class family which
was highly competitive. My
father was a Supreme Court
Judge, my mother, an
important and influential
person in the United Jewish
Appeal, and my brother, a
famous television producer.
It took me thirty-five years
before I realized that I was
my self and not the judge's
daughter, the producer's
sister or some appendage of
my family. Finally, at 43, I
realized I had everything I
wanted: two marvelous,
healthy children, an ideal
long term relationship,
wonderful friends and enough
money and success. Yet,
there was something still
gnawing at me; something
deep down inside was
missing. I used to say to my
friends, "No one will ever
feel fulfilled unless he
finds a connection with
something larger than
himself - the Source, God,
whatever you want to call
it."
In 1983, after completing an
enormous effort,
co-producing and co-writing
the music and lyrics for a
musical, I made the decision
for the first time in my
life not to decide what I
would do next. Somehow, my
need to prove myself and my
desire for recognition no
longer seemed important.
However, this was not an
easy decision. Actually, it
made me very nervous, for I
would have to wait, be
patient and experience the
anxiety of not knowing.
Instead of diving head first
into a new project, I was
going to try out to trust
that something would evolve
naturally for me.
A year later, I read two
books about Sri Sathya Sai
Baba: The Holy Man and
the Psychiatrist and
Avatar. I became
completely entranced with
the human values expressed
by Sai Baba. I felt his love
and a special vibration in
any book about or by him. I
had already read widely in
the field of human
consciousness and
spirituality. As a matter of
fact, by a coincidence (if
you believe in
coincidences), I had
recently started working as
a freelance editor with a
new publishing company in
this exact field. I had read
Ram Dass, Muktananda,
Paramahansa Yogananda; and
they all said many wonderful
things, but none had ever
moved me like Sai Baba.
When I read, "Let the
different faiths exist, let
them flourish, and let the
glory of God be sung in all
languages and in a variety
of tunes"; and when I
learned that, unlike most
other gurus, Sai Baba does
not accept money, I became
very interested in him.
However, it was these words
of Swami's that captured my
heart, for this is exactly
what I believed:
There is only one religion -
the religion of Love
There is only one caste -
the caste of humanity
There is only one language -
the language of the heart
There is only one God -
He is Omnipresent.
Less that three months
later, on January 10, 1985,
a friend and I were on our
way to India. We flew to
Bangalore, rested a few
days, gathered supplies and,
excitedly, left for Baba's
ashram in Puttaparthi.
The first day at the ashram
was really a shock. First of
all, I had been assigned a
room to myself by the
accommodations office, with
no furniture, no fan, a
bathroom which consisted of
a hole in the floor, with a
faucet four feet off the
ground for washing in cold
water. This was not exactly
inspiring. Secondly, there
was an atmosphere of
devotion and reverence that
was completely unfamiliar to
me. At once, I realized that
I was there to look inward,
and that I would have to
detach from all the
externals or I wouldn't last
another day.
Miraculously, within
twenty-four hours, I had
begun to ignore the
austerities and to accept
the extremely devotional
attitude of some of the
devotees. I would learn my
way and let them have
theirs.
On the second day, my friend
and I were out taking
pictures. We had one picture
left, and Baba came right by
us in the car. He smiled at
me - a smile that went right
into my heart. I felt my
heart physically open up. My
friend looked at me and saw
me grinning from ear to ear.
"You're all flushed and
radiant. I never saw you
look like this before." For
a minute, I was totally
overcome with the love I had
received from Baba. Then I
said, "Do you think he was
really smiling at me or
because you were taking a
picture?" I heard myself. I
couldn't believe what I had
said. "That's what Baba
means by the monkey mind," I
exclaimed. "I can't believe
that after such a powerful
feeling, I could say that.
Unbelievable!" But what a
lesson. I felt Baba had
taught the necessity of
training the mind to focus,
to be one pointed, and this
was essential for me
because, by nature, I am
very analytical. I decided
right there to suspend
disbelief and every time I
was tempted to doubt my
experience, I would say,
"Sohum," the mantra I had
chosen from my readings. It
means, "I am He."
Darshan means "in the
presence of a holy being."
During darshan, Baba gives
his blessing, takes letters
and indicates which people
are to go into the temple
for an interview. In the
beginning, I was waiting to
see a miracle or to get
called for an interview; in
other words, I was into
expectation and desire.
After Baba gave me that huge
smile, I felt different
during darshan - more able
to receive - more open and
loving.
At first glance you are
But a small man in an orange robe
Sometimes stern, sometimes smiling
You smiled at me and
Gave me a glimmer of Your radiance
When next I saw You
Love enveloped me and
A tear caressed my cheek
I beg You
Come into my heart and
Show me I am One with You.
Listening to my first
lecture at the ashram, I got
a very helpful clue. The
speaker, an American devotee
and ashram resident, said,
"Don't spend your time here
wondering if Baba is divine;
look for the divinity within
yourself." How right that
felt to me. A miracle would
be nice but that wasn't what
I wanted. I wanted to feel
my connection with God. I
believe in God, and I
believe in myself and in
following my own heart and
conscience, but I wanted to
feel that my heart and
conscience were not mine
alone. Daily I wrote letters
to Baba which helped clarify
my own thoughts about what I
wanted.
I also began to think about
my life, and I wondered why
I seemed to have so many
crisis. I had lost both my
parents before I was 30. My
brother had died in a plane
crash in 1979. I had had an
operation for the removal of
a lump on my thyroid in 1975
when I was 35 (it turned out
to be benign). I had had an
unusually difficult divorce
in 1976. AND my children had
been in the hospital three
times within a
year-and-a-half in 1980-81.
I was always a "survivor" in
these situation, but I knew
deep inside that there had
to be a better way to live
through these experiences.
Yet, perhaps I needed these
crisis. Maybe they were
teaching me to surrender. In
fact, it was the night
before my youngest
daughter's spinal operation,
after a year of trying all
kinds of techniques to
arrest the spinal curvature,
and in a state of total
exhaustion, the I finally
did let go. I actually
prayed to something or
someone, saying, "There is
nothing more I can do. Thy
will be done."
What happened was truly
incredible: the operation
was not only a success - the
whole hospital experience
was easy. I was able to be
supportive and loving
without my usual fear and
anxiety. This was my first
recognition of how God
reveals himself, if we truly
surrender to him.
In those first days at the
ashram, I found bhajans
strange. I couldn't sing
them in Sanskrit or Hindi,
and, event though I had
written music myself, I
found it hard to relate to
them musically. After a week
or so, I began to find them
pleasing and was able to
feel the surge of energy
they evoked.
Twice during bhajans, I
smelled a peculiar sweet
fragrance around me. It was
the same fragrance I had
noticed on two occasions
back home while reading the
Baba books. I asked the
woman sitting next to me if
she smelled anything. She
didn't. I said, "It smells
like vibhuti. Maybe that's
what it is." But why this
fragrance at home? I
remember getting up and
looking in the kitchen when
it happened but I had found
nothing. The woman next to
me then said, "That's
wonderful. Vibhuti is a sign
from Baba to let you know
he's with you." After she
said that, others told me
similar stories.
On that first visit, Baba
never took letters from me,
nor did he talk to me.
However, I must confess that
he looked at me quite a few
times; and every time he
did, I felt my heart
opening, releasing a flow of
love.
One afternoon at darshan, I
realized I was blessed.
Another day I realized that
although I wanted an
interview, I didn't need
one. And most important, I
realized that where I chose
to put my attention was
where I would be: focus was
everything. Every day I
learned something new, but
it wasn't intellectual
learning; it was learning
from the heart. However, the
most wonderful miracle was
feeling totally calm and
completely at PEACE for the
first time in my life. Sure,
I have known happiness, but
this was a "PEACE that
passeth understanding."
After I returned from my
first trip to India, I
joined the Sai Baba Center
in Manhattan and began to
enjoy singing devotional
songs and doing service. At
this point in my life, I
knew I needed satsang,
as Baba calls it - being
with others on the spiritual
path.
You ask me
Is Baba Divine?
How can I answer
When I have barely touched
My own Divinity
That He is
More than a man
I am sure
But to know
He is Divine
I must know
That I am too.
I returned to India on
November 7, 1985, for Baba's
60th birthday celebration.
There is no way to describe
Baba's love and generosity.
He was always outside giving
darshan, giving gifts,
giving free food for a week
and, of course, giving love.
Truly, his life is his
message.
One morning, I awoke with
intermittent stomach cramps.
I went to darshan but
decided I should rest and
skip bhajans. However, at
five minutes to nine, a
friend said, "Come on, let's
go. Maybe bhajans will make
you feel better."
When I arrived at the
temple, all places were
filled so I wandered around
outside and finally sat down
on a stoop next to a lovely
new friend of mine from
Australia. Not more than two
minutes had passed when she
said to me, "Oh, they're
calling the chair ladies.
That's me. Baba's giving out
saris. I can't go in with
this; will you hold it for
me?" She handed me a big
straw mat and happily fought
her way through the crowds
onto the temple grounds.
About ten minutes later, I
saw her signaling to me. I
thought she wanted her mat
back, so I slowly got up to
hand it to her when she
said, "Let the lady
through." She then reached
for me and pulled me through
the crowd that was ten deep.
"Go, sit down," she said,
"Baba's giving out saris to
the Westerners." I was
totally stunned, partly from
what was happening, but also
because I was feeling ill
and passive.
Within minutes, Baba was
walking directly in front of
us. He seemed to be deciding
which material and color
best suited each person. He
had a few plain colored,
satiny silk ones left. Would
I get one of these? If so,
which color would he choose
for me? All of a sudden,
there he was, directly in
front of me. He gently
dropped an orange sari in my
lap. I was stunned, in awe.
It was too much for me to
absorb. I could not get over
the "non-coincidence" of
this event. I thought, "If
one friend hadn't said to go
to bhajans, and if another
hadn't told me Baba was
giving out saris, I would
not be sitting here now."
One day, while we were
waiting to go in for
darshan, a seva dal (service
worker), asked for
volunteers to give up
bhajans in order to help
clear the stadium for the
birthday celebrations. So,
after darshan, I walked
alone to the Hill View
Stadium. When I arrived, I
walked toward the stage, all
the time looking for some
Westerners to join. I didn't
find any, so I squatted near
some Indian women and
observed what they were
doing. I found myself a
sharp stone and, using it
like a spade, dug the weeds
and stones out of the hard
ground in order to make it
more comfortable for all
those who would be sitting
there during the birthday
week. For me, it was
physically hard work - hard
on my hands and hard on my
back. But the Indian women
were so happy to see me.
They asked me all kinds of
questions. We spoke and
laughed together as best we
could, Baba being our shared
interest. I felt so happy
doing this work among all
these accepting, loving
faces - all from another
world. I was beginning to
experience, for the first
time, the joy of service,
and then all of a sudden,
the women started singing
bhajans - bhajans I knew,
like "Ganesha Sharanam" and
"Shivaya Nama Shiva". I
couldn't believe it! At that
time, I only knew a handful
of bhajans - which never
seemed to be sung at the
temple, and now, here I was,
able to sing along with
everyone. My joy was
complete.
I was, once again, convinced
that Baba had arranged this
experience especially for me
- service was one of the
best spiritual practices for
this upper middle class city
"sophisticate."
Around mid-November, as the
crowds began to grow, I knew
I had to watch myself; it
would be easy to become
irritated and angry because
of the mere numbers of
people. Twice I did lose my
self-control; that there was
a third time, with the
crowds at over a half a
million people, when I
couldn't move at all - not
forward or backward or to
either side. Everyone was
pushing. I cried, "Shanti,
shanti," but no one would
listen. I became really
frightened because there
were moments when I was
lifted off the ground from
the sheer pressure of the
crowd. I was desperate; I
had to do something - but
what? I thought of Baba, and
crazy as it may seem, I
began to sing, "Shivaya Nama
Shiva." Only one man joined
in; but miraculously, a tiny
space opened up and I
slipped through to safety.
On the morning of November
17th, Baba gave his
valedictory discourse in the
enormously crowded
Poornachandra Hall. When
Baba spoke, and the
translator translated, I
could understand - nothing.
Then, all of a sudden, it
didn't matter because I
could actually feel Baba's
voice melting my heart. Was
it the gentleness, the tone,
the vibration? At no other
time was I able to
experience this profound
feeling. I wondered then if
understanding mattered;
after all, I could always
read the discourse later. If
I could feel my heart
melting, what more could I
possibly want?
My final highlight of the
trip occured on November
22nd, after the overseas
devotees had sung to Baba. I
was in the chorus and I was
very close to the stage.
When Baba left in his car, I
waved to him, and guess
what? He waved back. I was
totally overcome. For the
first and only time in my
life, I experienced
universal love: I loved
everyone. I don't know how
to explain this intense and
expansive feeling, but it
does exist. This euphoria
must have lasted in all its
strength for about half an
hour and then gently
subsided.
The feelings evoked by these
experiences have not
remained, and yet because
they were so powerful, I
long to repeat them. I want
to live in PEACE, BLISS,
UNIVERSAL LOVE, and SERVICE.
I am grateful that Baba has
given me a taste of all of
these. As a result of these
experiences, I am now
beginning to see the world
and my life differently: A
New York City bus becomes a
love bus where passengers
offer each other seats and
smile at each other...
people help each other
across the street... bag
ladies and bums no longer
seem threatening... people
talk kindly to one another.
Where have all the
self-centered, inconsiderate
New Yorkers gone? So, I am
proving to myself that
living by Baba's teachings -
"seeing good, hearing good
and doing good" - does
indeed change my reality.
My life is truly blessed.
Baba says, "Be happy," and I
am. The practice of Karma
Yoga, dedicating all my
actions to the Lord, with no
eye on the fruits of my
actions, has helped me
enormously. Because I have
been such a goal oriented
person, this discipline has
relieved me of the outcome,
which often meant anxiety
for me. Now I am more
focused on the process of
life; after all, the fruits
are not mine, but the effort
still is.
I believe now that Baba is
divine; I can't tell you
quite how or when this
crystallized. But most
important, I believe we are
all divine. It is now up to
us to purify ourselves so
that we can experience - not
just intuit - our own
divinity.
Before You came
We lived as victims in a random Universe
Full of fear and separateness
Never knowing why, never knowing who
Never know Sai, never knowing You
Then You came
We learned of our strength in a perfect Universe
Full of Love and unity
Contemplating why, contemplating who
Contemplating Sai, contemplating You.
It is now almost three years
since I read my first book
about Sathya Sai Baba.
During these years, I have
become steeped in the
spiritual path and its
practices. Yet sometimes I
have asked myself if I have
truly changed or if I am
only playing another game
and wearing yet another
mask? I have heard this
referred to as "spiritual
materialism," and I have
wondered if I have fallen
into this trap. But
something happened recently
which indicated to me that
there are changes going on -
deep important ones.
In the spring of 1986, a few
of us had begun going to a
nursing home every Saturday
morning. We chatted, painted
pictures, gave manicures and
sang songs with all who
wanted some company. Before
entering the home, I always
dedicated my service to
Baba. Giving up the fruits
of my actions seemed to
endow me with strength and
love.
Most of the patients were in
wheelchairs and very sick;
few ever returned home. When
I first walked down the
nursing home corridors, I
was horrified to see the
patients so drugged. One
woman was so old, ill and
medicated that she was
unable to sit up straight.
She was leaning all the way
over to one side. As I
passed, I prayed she
wouldn't notice me, but no
sooner had the thought
crossed my mind, when she
signaled me to her side. Of
course, I had no choice but
to go over to her. In fear,
I quickly re-dedicated my
deeds to Baba. I listened to
her story, which I couldn't
comprehend at all because of
her slurred speech. I gently
stroked her head and left as
soon as I could get away
without hurting her feelings
or showing my own.
After that incident, I
thought a lot about my
attitude. Baba says that we
are all God and we must
treat all the same. Yet I
found, week in and week out,
I was spending time only
with those patients I felt
comfortable with and those
who didn't upset me because
of their appearance. And I
was avoiding anyone who was
bossy, angry or difficult
for me to look at. It took a
year before I was willing to
face this - not just think
about it, but face it and
deal with it. I dedicated my
services to Baba, and I
asked for the strength to
see all as God. I also let
Baba know in my thoughts
that I was ready for more
challenge.
And so, one Saturday
morning, there I was,
happily chatting away with
some of the ladies I see all
the time, when an unknown
man arrived, wheeling a
woman into the room - a
woman so crumpled, so
disfigured that she could
not keep her body erect; her
head was at the level of her
waist and her hands was
completely gnarled.
I thought, "I hope I can do
her nails and no one else
gets to her first." As soon
as I was free, I went over
and began to talk quietly to
the "new" lady. I massaged
her gnarled hands and even
managed to manicure and
polish her fingernails. I
don't remember much - only
that I was happy and totally
engrossed; so much so, that
it was only after I had
finished that I realized I
had never seen her as
disfigured, nor had I been
afraid. As a matter of fact,
what I had noticed was her
radiant smile. Somehow, by
Swami's grace, I had been
able to see beyond her
physical form and relate to
her whole being. I believe
this is what Baba means as
seeing the divine in
everyone.
Open our eyes
Help us to see
Open our hearts
To love Thee
To love Thee in all
As me, as we, as One
Free us from pride
Help us to be
Free from all fear
To love Thee
To love Thee in all
As me, as, as One
A LETTER NEVER MAILED... BUT
ANSWERED
Dear Baba: September 28,
1987
The honeymoon is over. For
two-and-a-half years, I was
filled with the glow of you.
You said, "Be happy," and I
was. Then what happened? I'm
not sure. I do remember
saying to you, "I'm ready
for more challenge." As a
matter of fact, I've said
many things to you, and now,
looking back, I realize they
all came true. I guess we
should be very careful what
we pray for.
I asked for "more challenge"
and that I have. I asked for
less ego and that I have.
But I thought that when I
had less ego, I'd be much
clearer about what was right
for me; I'd begin to tap
into my higher Self. Not
true at all. What has
happened is, I no longer
seem to need to prove myself
or to show I'm smart or
creative. As a matter of
fact, I no longer have a
desire to do anything and,
given my rajasic
personality, this is a scary
place to be.
It seems that some other
motivation, from deep
within, will have to replace
the driving force of my old
needs and desires. Perhaps
this is a necessary step in
becoming your instrument -
the clearing out of some ego
in order to "hear" you. I
trust that - sometimes.
Other times, I feel so
uncomfortable in this "no
place" that I think I will
just get a full-time job or
write another show -
anything to keep me from
despair.
I have read that this stage
of hopelessness is connected
with surrender. Our patterns
have changed and our ego is
diminishing; if we could
just feel this and get into
the pain, a new sense of
surrender and peace would
follow. Yet, easier said
than done.
I have always had resistance
to change and to pain. I
have always wanted to get
through these as fast as
possible. It has been very
hard for me to accept the
idea that we must welcome
everything that happens to
us, good or bad, knowing it
is all the grace of God.
However, now I do have the
new tools of spiritual
practice and my new core
beliefs. I believe in you,
Swami, and your
unconditional love, I
believe that in pain, there
is growth and I believe this
is a necessary stage for me
to go through. Yet, I feel
farther away from you than
ever before; my mind is a
mass of rubbish, and my joy
seems to have been covered
over by my resistance to
this process. Baba, I need
you to help me let go - to
BREAK me so that I can cry,
not only tears of pain, but
tears of joy and devotion.
Dear Swami, I ask only one
thing of you. Stay with me,
or rather, let me be aware
of your presence throughout
the journey of this
lifetime; then anything will
be welcome.
In November, 1987, I became
a hospice volunteer. I
decided to follow my
training with the Elisabeth
Kubler-Ross five day "Life,
death, Transition Workshop."
I knew I had, what Elisabeth
calls, "unfinished
business". For years, I had
been saying, "I think my
stuffed sinuses are
repressed tears." I felt
that the more in touch I was
with myself, the better I
would be in helping those
who were about to die, as
well as their families.
If I had known what went on
in this workshop, I would
have run a mile. What I
heard was incredible. Some
people had tried to kill
themselves, some were dying
of cancer or AIDS, others
were abused and molested,
one was a Vietnam veteran
who had seen hundreds of his
buddies killed or mutilated.
Participants got up in front
of the group, nearly ninety
strong, and dealt in few
words and mostly feelings
with their issues;
expressing their deepest
hurts, pains, anger, tears
and screams. And it was
scary - wondering what would
happen once the Pandora's
Box was opened! At one
point, I felt so frightened
that I was ready to leave. I
prayed to Baba: "If I'm
supposed to be here, give me
a sign - a real sign -
nothing vague or abstract. I
want a CLEAR sign." Within a
few hours, I found out that
one of the eight trainers
was a Sai Baba devotee!
After a while, I felt less
panicky, as it became clear
our trainers were highly
skilled in dealing with
these emotions. After forty
people had gone through this
process, I began to see that
everyone suffers grief, rage
and pain, although in
varying degrees. We are not
different; only the
circumstances of our lives
are different.
One morning, as I sat in
meditation, I realized that
I could just get up in front
of the group and not know
why specifically - simply
trust. Then once I worked
through my paralyzing fear,
two thoughts came to mind: I
had been setting limits for
myself and protecting myself
for years; but this wasn't
necessary anymore because I
no longer had anyone to
"stay together" for - my
children were grown; I was
now living alone. I didn't
have to be in charge or in
control anymore. What I did
need to do was to "let go"
and let Swami in.
I remember only fragments of
what I said to the group,
but the feelings I remember
well. First, I dedicated
this experience to Baba...
or I couldn't have done it
at all. I told about the
deaths in my amily and the
hospital crisis. I said I
had always felt an enormous
sense of responsibility and
had always been the "strong"
one; I knew I was full of
grief and I wanted to cry,
but crying was hard for me.
I finally let go of my
control and began to cry
gently. But I really wanted
to sob and let it all out.
I was then asked if I wanted
to go into another room and
work privately to release
more of my grief. There I
lay on my back, sobbing as I
thought of my mother,
father, brother and my
children, and how I hadn't
been a perfect mother -
sobbing out all my grief as
each one passed through my
mind. Everytime I felt
stuck, I prayed to Baba to
keep me open and receive my
pain. A few times, I wanted
to talk, but the trainer
said, "No words - just
sounds." And I knew that was
perfect for me; for while I
usually knew,
intellectually, what I was
feeling, I didn't always
allow myself to feel it. And
although I had always had a
terrible fear of losing
control, this time my trust
in Baba enabled me to let
go.
The pain in the room seemed
to get lighter as more
people got in touch with
themselves. The love and
support from the group was
absolutely astounding. I
felt that I would never be
able to judge others or
myself so harshly again, so
deep had been my sense of
empathy and connection with
all of them. I was beginning
to realize that this was a
holy experience.
On the last evening, there
was entertainment by the
group. All were in a gay
mood celebrating their
release and empowerment. I,
on the other hand, began to
regress slowly and to feel
frightened and little. At
the end, everyone was
dancing; and I felt very
disconnected, weepy and
scared. Such feelings were
alien to me; I normally feel
a sense of confidence and
belonging in a group.
I began to cry
uncontrollably. I became
very scared because I felt
powerless; I was a victim,
reliving a childhood terror
of my father which I had so
often felt before I was 11.
Previous therapy had put me
in touch with this memory,
and yet I had never fully
expressed the actual fear
and pain, the feeling of
being a victim. I wondered,
would I ever recover and
feel strong again? I only
knew that Baba was with me;
and that my "grief" for the
little girl inside - so sad
and frightened - was a
healing grief; and I
realized only by loving her
and fully embracing this
experience would I be free
of my lifelong compulsion to
be "responsible and in
control".
One evening, a few days
after the workshop was over,
I was feeling very sad, and
I remembered that Baba tells
us to turn to him. So I went
to my altar and began to
sing some devotional songs.
When I say:
You are my mother, You are my father
You are my nearest kin...
I wept like a child. I sang
this song over and over
letting the tears flow. I
was truly yearning for God.
I felt then that I, with my
little ego mind, didn't
really know how to be or how
to love, and that I had to
get in touch with Baba, my
higher self. I guess I
needed this workshop, even
though I felt it was such a
violent form of
purification. But I had
prayed for all this; I had
prayed for my heart to be
broken so that I could weep
tears of joy, so I could
surrender, so I could serve
with true unconditional
love, and so I could be
closer to Swami, my higher
self, for I, too, am God.
After much crying (remember
how I couldn't cry?), I
realized that I had to
forgive myself for being
less than perfect,
especially with my children,
yet doing the best I could
with who I was and where I
was at. Only when I forgive
myself will I be able to
forgive others; only then
will I be able to let go of
my control and let everyone
be just as they are and
where they are, and not try
to change them.
I know now what it means
when we are told we must
welcome the pain, for we
must accept it all in order
to be whole. Yet, how hard
it is to welcome suffering,
to always remember that pain
is for the purpose of our
spiritual growth. I am so
thankful for my experience
with Baba, for I know also
know that there is a place
behind all the pains and
pleasures of existence where
we are whole and perfect, a
place beyond body, mind and
thought.
In this raw state I left for
India, in mid-December,
1987. The night before going
to the ashram, I was very
tense with worry and
longing. I had my
20-year-old daughter with
me, and I was very nervous
about what she would think
about Baba and the ashram.
(She viewed her trip to
India and Baba as an
anthropological study!) In
my heart of hearts, I wanted
Baba to capture her as he
had captured me; or, at the
very least, I wanted her to
believe in God. I kept
trying to detach from this
mania of maya by giving her
to Baba, but she just kept
returning! Then I realized:
if I could not give her to
Swami and trust that he had
brought her here and would
take care of her, it meant
that I had no faith in him;
and all my sadhana had been
for naught. With this
realization, I burst into
tears. I ardently prayed for
two things: "Baba, please
give me some sign of your
love, some recognition when
I arrive." And, "Please, let
me be able to concentrate on
you fully and not be pulled
away from you because of my
attachment to my daughter."
To say that my prayers were
answered would be an
under-statement. During my
first darshan the next day,
Baba came over to me and
asked where I was from. I
was shocked. He had never
spoken directly to me
before.
"Where am I from?" I said
stupefied. "I'm from New
York." And in a flash, he
was gone. I wept quietly,
and my daughter gently asked
if I was all right.
The following morning, at my
second darshan, I got into
the first row. Baba again
asked me where I was from.
This time, I was prepared.
"New York," I said expecting
him to move on.
"How many?" he asked.
"Three," I said.
"Go."
And the next thing I knew,
my daughter and I, and a
friend were going for an
interview. My tears flowed
in an abundance of joy,
gratitude, love and release.
Baba was the perfect host,
humoring his guests to make
them feel at home. First, he
made vibhuti for the women.
It tasted and smelled fresh
from the bakery. Then he
spoke for a while, but I was
so busy crying that I didn't
hear anything until I saw
him raise his right hand and
say, "All the power is in
this hand. This is divine
power." Then he asked
someone, "What do you want?"
Out from his hand came a
watch (set at the right
time) for a young student
and next, a lingam for an
Italian woman's sick son. He
made a ring for a German
man. The ring had Baba's
picture on it; Baba passed
it around for all to see,
asking the man, "Do you want
Baba or Jesus?" When the man
didn't reply, Swami said, "I
know. You want Jesus." He
blew on the ring twice, and
lo and behold, the ring now
had a picture of Jesus on
it.
Every time Baba asked
someone what they wanted, I
repeated to myself, "I only
want love, peace,
Self-realization." I kept
remembering how Baba says he
gives us what we want so
that we will want what he
has to give, and that is
realizing our own divinity.
I was also thinking that
Baba refers to these
miracles as "tinsel"
compared to what he could
really give us.
Later in the interview, Baba
turned to a lady and said,
"Where is your japamala?"
"What?" she said.
"Where is your mala?" Baba
repeated.
"What?" she said again.
"WHERE IS YOUR JAPAMALA?" we
all chimed in.
We were all laughing, when
out of Baba's open hand
flowed this 108 bead,
crystal japamala. It was so
long... it was so big; it
took time to come out of his
hand. And it came out so
silently. I was truly awed.
I don't know what happened,
but all of a sudden, I
wanted a japamala - and
badly. Where this thought
came from, I have no idea. I
never even thought about a
japamala before nor had I
ever used one. I said to
myself, "Okay now, get your
priorities straight. Do you
really want a japamala? No.
Remember, you want what's
really important: peace,
love, to know your Self." It
was an uphill battle, but I
finally recovered.
These manifestations are
marvelous to watch, for they
are a constant reminder of a
larger reality. But what I
remember most is the
gentleness and sweetness of
Baba's voice and his
overwhelming unconditional
love. That, for me, was the
most striking part.
Swami then spoke to us about
making decisions. He said we
should ask ourselves: "Is it
good? Is it bad?" We should
wait and come to a decision
- not from the intellect but
from our conscience and from
our hearts. He spoke of
education and how book
learning was not enough. We
must go past the mind and
past the body and follow
conscience and intuition.
Baba said to me directly
that my mind was a bundle of
desires. At first this
amazed me because I don't
need or desire a lot of
things. Then I remembered
all my desires of the night
before when I had been so
anxious about my daughter.
He told me that I sometimes
use "sharp words" and "too
many". How true this is, and
yet, I was discovering how
easy it is to accept his
loving criticism. He also
said I was a "good woman."
The atmosphere seemed very
gay and light to me. I felt
joyful. All of a sudden, I
asked Baba if I could have
his handkerchief.
"You want my handkerchief?"
"Yes, Swami."
"Later, when I see you again
and speak to you privately."
"Do you mean in another
lifetime?" I asked.
Now, this may sound bold or
rude, but it was said in a
light, humorous way. Swami
smiled and repeated that he
would see me again and talk
to me privately. I prayed
not to get caught up in this
expectation.
Baba rose from his chair,
and everyone began to touch
and kiss his feet. I
remembered that when I first
observed people doing this,
I had said to myself, "Not
me. That's an Indian
custom." But now, I was
beginning to understand the
significance of padnamaskar.
It means surrender at the
feet of the Lord, which
ultimately means surrender
to yourself. So, with great
care, I leaned over and
timidly kissed his foot.
The last thing Baba did was
to give out vibhuti packets,
and we all walked out of the
interview room over-flowing
with Swami's beauty and
goodness. Only hours later
did I realize that I had not
worried about my daughter at
all during the interview - I
had been totally immersed in
our sweet Lord.
I figured from then one I
would be in the back row and
that was fine with me. That
afternoon, however, I was
again in the first row. Baba
came along and looked
directly at me and said,
"Very, very happy." And once
again, I cried, more joyful
tears.
This entire trip was full of
grace. After spending a
month at the ashram, I left
for a two week trip around
India. When I returned for
my last three weeks, my
experience was entirely
different.
This time, I felt very
peaceful. I kept silence the
day after my return and
experienced an incredible
sense of bliss during
afternoon darshan, bhajans
and the period in between.
My mind was still chattering
away; but, for the first
time, chatter became the
background and the bliss,
the foreground. I decided to
continue keeping silence
during meals, darshan,
bhajans, and while waiting
in lines; and to talk only
when absolutely necessary.
Silence is, of course,
encouraged by Baba, and now
I can see how much is
forfeited by unnecessary
chatter. For about five or
six days, I didn't need or
want any personal attention
for I felt a deep inner
connection with Baba - like
nothing I had ever
experienced before. With
this deeper connection came
an awareness of oneness -
there were times when he
smiled at someone else, and
I felt he was smiling at me,
and I was, on occasion, able
to feel the joy of others
when they were receiving
Baba's blessing of
padnamaskar.
So the first week back was a
beautiful inner journey - no
attention, no needs, just
bliss from within. And then,
guess what? Another
interview. This time, a
private one. I was totally
unprepared. The minute I got
called for this second
interview, my bliss and
inner connection with Swami
vanished. As a matter of
fact, I was almost mute the
whole time, which I know was
Swami's doing. Yes, I was
still able to cry my tears
of joy, but my usually sharp
mind was just no there. I
seemed to be in another
space.
During this interview, one
of the puzzling things Baba
said to me was "Temper." I
gently denied this because I
don't get very angry; I
usually express my feelings
in the moment so that they
don't get bottled up. But
Swami repeated it: "Temper."
He said it sweetly, and I
knew if he said it, he must
be right.
For the whole day, I was
driven crazy by this word.
Finally, it dawned on me.
There was another meaning.
And when I found out what it
was, I could have cried with
joy: it was so perfect,
proving, in fact - without a
shadow of a doubt - that
Baba knew me. Yes, I had
forgotten that "temper" also
means to make more flexible,
to soften as in the
tempering of gold.
When the private interviews
were over, everyone began
taking out photos, books,
scraps of paper, cameras or
any token for Baba to sign,
as a permanent remembrance
of him. I was completely
unprepared - which seemed to
be one of my themes for this
trip. (Whatever I expected
to happen, never did. And
whatever I didn't expect,
happened). I was sitting
there rather sadly, when all
of a sudden, I remembered.
"Swami," I asked nervously,
"Could I have your
handkerchief?"
"Not now," he replied
curtly.
And then in a complete
change of mood, his eyes
twinkling playfully, he
picked up his handkerchief
and feigning anger, threw it
at me as if appeasing a
child. My heart melted and I
quickly tucked the
handkerchief next to my
breast.
When Baba stood up,
indicating that the
interview was coming to a
close, there was a special
moment for me that I will
replay in my mind and heart
forever. It was a moment
where Baba showed that he
knew me. Baba had been with
me during that Kubler-Ross
workshop, while I was
rediscovering the little
girl inside me and learning
to open up to pain; while I
was beginning - just
beginning - to surrender to
him. Yes, Baba knew exactly
what I needed. I was sitting
right in front of him, and I
asked for padnamaskar.
"Here, take," Swami said as
he stood up. He patiently
waited as I blissfully
kissed both feet.
Then as he turned away from
me, with his basket of
vibhuti packets in hand, I
quietly said to him, "I love
you Baba. You are my mother
and my father."
He slowly turned back to me
and with the love of a
thousand mothers said, "and
you are my daughter.
"Just as a loving mother cares for her child, if one has surrendered his life to God with full faith in Him, the Lord takes care of that devotee; no need to worry about anything."
- Sathya Sai Baba